Balancing Act (Silhouette Special Edition)

by Darcy, Lilian

  How would he return her touch? Would his hand engulf hers, strong and warm, or would his caress be light and teasing and slow?

  “This is very, very good,” Brady said.

  He was talking about her Burgundy beef, not her body or the chemistry it generated with his. She liked the way he ate, hungry and appreciative but with manners that were obviously ingrained, not put on just for tonight. He’d been well raised.

  “You have to use the right cut of meat,” she answered. She hardly knew what she was saying. “And the right herbs, and cook it real slow.”

  “You’re not going to narrate me the recipe, are you?”

  “Well, no, I—”

  She caught his expression, realized he was teasing her, and laughed. So did he. He had just the right laugh, rich and sexy and low. It was the laugh of a naughty little boy grown into a good man—the kind of man you knew still had a streak of that naughty boy hiding somewhere deep inside him, ready to dare you and tempt you into things you shouldn’t want to do, but did.

  She was going to bed early tonight, she decided, and she wasn’t drinking any more wine. There was a book in her bag. She’d tell him she was tired, which was true, and she’d read in bed for a while, until fatigue overcame her. Brady Buchanan was the last person she wanted to be thinking of as she drifted off to sleep.

  The weekend proved easier than Libby had feared. Brady got a list of suggested items from her and went out grocery shopping with Scarlett in the morning. Libby tried to give him some money for the groceries, but he wouldn’t take it.

  While he and Scarlett were out, Libby went through the real estate rental listings and the want ads. There was always a demand for qualified child-care staff, but she was shopping for a good environment for Colleen, also, and she didn’t want to end up in some baby-minding factory on the far side of town.

  Knowing little about the layout of the city, it took her a long time to go through all the listings and identify the most likely ones to try. She finished up with a list of several apartments and small houses that looked promising, and made some phone calls to arrange to see them. Tonight, she would ask if she could use Brady’s computer to print out copies of her résumé, so she could call several places about employment on Monday.

  While she studied maps and newspapers, Colleen was happy to play. Scarlett had some cool toys.

  Brady brought pre-made, cling-wrap-covered pizzas back from the supermarket, and they all ate lunch together. Libby and Colleen had to hurry off as soon as they’d finished eating, to see the first apartment on their list. Scarlett and Brady were going to the football game.

  The rental properties were the weekend’s big disappointment. “The place I liked best was snapped up by the couple who got there just before me.” Libby told Brady when she returned at five. “There was a nice duplex. What’s it called here? A half-double? But I’m not sure about it, because it was pretty close to campus.”

  “Can get a lot of late-night partying down there,” Brady agreed.

  “The best garden apartment complex only had a three-bedroom available right now, and that’s too big and too expensive. The agent says she’ll contact me if a two-bedroom comes up. The other places I looked at all had problems.”

  “So I don’t get to turf you out of here, yet?”

  “No, but I’ll keep you posted. We don’t want to stretch this out too long.”

  He didn’t answer her directly, and she was glad. If they didn’t admit to the way they were feeling, it would go away. She hoped. “Have some coffee,” Brady said instead. He was drinking a mug of it himself, and prepared to pour her one from the half-filled pot still sitting on the coffee machine’s warming plate.

  “Is it decaf?”

  “It’s mountain-grown premium Kenya blend, but no, it’s not decaf.”

  “Then I’ll pass.”

  “I can easily—”

  “No, please. I’m fine.”

  She went across to the sink instead and filled a glass with cold water from the faucet. Brady stood and watched, as if he was humoring her in some strange behavior. From her peripheral vision, she saw him bring his mug to his lips and take a big gulp, and she found his thoughtful silence far more powerful than words.

  “Mom cracked today,” he said, when she’d drained the glass. “She called this afternoon, just after Scarlett and I got home. She wants to meet Colleen this minute because she’s going crazy, yada yada. She’s taking us out to dinner tonight at a Mexican restaurant near her place, and she’s not taking no for an answer. If that’s okay with you, of course,” he finished.

  Libby laughed. “And if it isn’t?”

  “Then she’ll probably buy an infra-red camera and satellite tracking devices and start stalking you.”

  “Fun for all of us!”

  “No, seriously, she’s not scary. She’s just a mom. I shouldn’t be teasing you about her.”

  “I think I can handle a mom.”

  “So you’ll come?”

  “I want to meet Colleen’s second grandmother, as much as she wants to meet Colleen.”

  Even though every new relationship we make increases the potential for pain.

  The restaurant was noisy, and the food was good.

  Delia Buchanan had gasped and pressed her hand over her heart when she first saw Colleen. She remained a little shell-shocked throughout the meal, even though she admitted this didn’t make sense.

  “I mean, I knew they were identical,” she said as they ate. She was a strong-boned woman, with her hair tinted a soft light brown and an alert expression behind her squarish, wire-framed glasses. “I’m the one who first saw the photo, and it never entered my head that it might not be Scarlett, even though I knew Brady loathed the idea of baby beauty pageants.” Libby flushed, and Mrs. Buchanan seemed to realize she hadn’t been very tactful. She went on quickly, “Not that this was a—”

  “It’s fine,” Libby said. She’d endured criticisms of her decisions and choices that were far worse.

  “And of course with her—with both of them—being so adorable, I can see exactly why you entered her. I mean, it was a talent contest as much as anything.”

  “It’s fine,” she repeated, and Brady looked at her across the corner of the table that separated them and frowned.

  “I hope you can make this work,” Mrs. Buchanan finished. “It’s going to take some courage, and some luck.”

  “Mom speaks her mind,” Brady said later, when they got home.

  “It didn’t spook me too much.”

  “You sure about that?” His intent gaze made her nervous.

  “It was fine.”

  “Yeah, I guess it would be,” he muttered, and Libby could see that her assurance had angered him, although she didn’t know why.

  On Sunday afternoon, they took the girls to Whetstone playground and the Park of Roses. There weren’t any of those in bloom at this time of the year, of course. The bushes were all pruned back. There weren’t many people, either, since the day was dull and cold, and this saved them from difficult questions and mistaken assumptions about their marital status by friendly strangers.

  At home, Libby cooked spaghetti for dinner while Brady did something with tools in the room at the back of the garage that was crowded with her furniture, and they both pretended that they weren’t avoiding each other.

  It was much easier during the week.

  Brady went through his usual routine with Scarlett at breakfast on Monday, and he and his daughter and Libby and hers, meshed just fine. At seven, he left the house to drop Scarlett at day care on his way to a construction site, after a quick, “We’re heading out,” to Libby, who was down in the basement putting laundry into the machine.

  “Okay, we’ll see you tonight,” she called back.

  “Would you like me to ask about spaces in their casual day-care program?” he offered, stepping onto the landing at the top of the stairs. “You might want to put Colleen in for a few hours this week, so you can get through
your errands faster.”

  “I might need to,” she agreed, although she was a little reluctant.

  This didn’t make sense. She was gaining a daughter, not losing one, but she felt extra protective of her relationship with Colleen at the moment, and terrified about loving Scarlett.

  If Brady had these fears as the week went by, he didn’t express them, and Libby didn’t need any encouragement to keep her thoughts and feelings to herself. They were safer inside her. She’d learned that. They were less real, and not open to argument or disdain.

  When Brady casually set the girls up in the living room together before their evening meal, with toys to play with, or encouraged Colleen to sit in the crook of one arm while Scarlett snuggled in the other and listened to him read a story, Libby had to fight her emotions back, fight the urge to grab Colleen and take her into another room.

  She was careful not to let her conflicted feelings show.

  I wonder if she’s cooking, Brady thought, sitting back in his black leather swivel chair late on Friday afternoon.

  Libby had cooked all week. Monday, some kind of pork chop thing in a rich gravy, with mashed potatoes, parsleyed carrots and string beans. Tuesday, grilled fish with French fries and salad. Wednesday, chicken pot pie, and Thursday, an Oriental fried rice.

  His stomach rumbled, just as Gretchen knocked on his open office door and marched across his almost-new carpet. “Are you busy, Brady?”

  No, just fantasizing about dinner.

  “What is it, Gretchen?”

  One look at her face and he knew.

  Resignation day.

  And she didn’t just hand him the letter, she wanted to talk. “I’m sorry it’s not working out for you,” he said when she finished, leaning forward and letting his palms fall heavily onto the desk.

  He hoped she’d pick up on the signals he was sending. He felt for her, and didn’t want to lose her, but wasn’t sure what more she wanted, or what he could give. At that moment, there was a click as the outer office door opened and Nate appeared. Inwardly, Brady swore.

  “Glad I caught you, boss,” Nate said, striding forward. He had a long envelope in his hand, and a “man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do” look on his face that Brady immediately didn’t want to see there.

  Then Nate caught sight of Gretchen. “Oh,” he said. Oh, spelled like a four-letter word. He dropped the envelope on Brady’s desk and shuffled back, dropping his voice to a fast and almost incomprehensible mumble. “Letter of resignation. Four weeks notice. Count on you as a reference? See you Monday.”

  Gretchen sat with a stony stare on her face. Nate’s dark flush had reached halfway up his face. Brady stood up. “Now, hang on a minute, guys, there’s no need for you both to go.”

  He realized as soon as he’d said it what a hole he’d dug himself into.

  By the time he got home an hour and a half later, after picking up Scarlett from his mom’s, he was more than ready for an easy night. He wanted a night that included Libby’s cooking, but somehow managed not to include her turbulent effect on his senses. He wanted a night when Colleen would be a playmate for Scarlett because they’d started to get cute together over the past couple of days, but with no nagging perception that he and Libby still weren’t doing it right.

  He got the home cooking, at least.

  Libby had made a big pot of chicken and corn chowder. The stove was off but the pot was still piping hot, and the aroma reached out to him as soon as he opened the door. It pulled him in, eased the tension in his neck and practically said to him, “Can I take off your coat, pour you a beer and massage your shoulders?”

  “Hundwy,” Scarlett said, smelling it, too.

  “Yeah, me, too, sweetheart,” he answered. He listened. The house was very quiet, and there was only the one light on in the kitchen. “I wonder where your—” He stopped.

  This was one of the things they just couldn’t get their heads around. Was Libby “your mommy”? Logically, since the girls were twins, she had to be, but they’d both agreed that it didn’t feel right yet. Libby almost seemed scared about it, although she never said so.

  At the moment, he couldn’t envisage how it ever would feel right, and it left him with these abrupt pauses in his conversations with Scarlett, when he reached a crossroads and didn’t know whether to go left to “Mommy” or right to “Colleen’s mom” or straight ahead and just say “Libby.”

  They’d had separate timetables all this week, running through different routines each morning and not meeting up until late afternoon. The girls only got to see each other for an hour or two, and though that was probably good—you couldn’t rush it, you couldn’t force the connection—it felt weird, too.

  Brady wasn’t particularly happy about having Scarlett in day care forty hours a week, but he didn’t have a choice. Meanwhile, Colleen got to be with her mom for all those extra hours. At heart, he believed in working it like that. Where possible, little kids should spend their time in the care of someone who loved them. But this wasn’t a perfect world, and Scarlett could only have that for three days a week.

  Libby was so great around the house, and such a great mom, it was tempting to try for the whole package. She could look after both girls, keep the place nice and make more of those mouth-watering meals. They could put Scarlett and Colleen in a part-time preschool program so she could have some time to herself. Maybe she’d like to take a class or just shop and drink coffee, once she had some friends. He’d cover her expenses, if she wanted. Once she and Colleen moved out, he’d employ her as a nanny, or—or—

  Yeah, right, and maybe he’d get a fifties haircut, a black-and-white TV, and a white picket fence for the front yard, while he was at it! This situation wasn’t 1950s clear-and-simple, and couldn’t ever be. At least he’d had sense enough not to mention the idea of splitting their roles to her. And after the fiasco this afternoon with Gretchen and Nate, he wasn’t planning on messing with gender equity issues for a while.

  Right now, he just wanted some of that soup.

  “Libby?” he called.

  No answer. It didn’t look like she was home. Then he saw a light seeping from under the door down to the basement, so he opened it and called down, but again there was no reply. He smelled something above the seductive curls of steam from the soup. It was an odor of burning plastic, and it came from the basement.

  Grabbing Scarlett in his arms, he hurried down, concerned. Scarlett liked it down here, fortunately. He’d painted the cement floor in heavy-duty pale gray paint, and set up half the space as a play area for her, with a piece of thick carpet, a slide, a green plastic alligator rocker and a toy kitchen set. Scarlett went to play on the slide right away, leaving Brady to assess the scene.

  The dryer door was open, revealing a damp pile of clothing sitting in the bottom of the tumbler, and the smell he’d detected was coming from the machine’s air vent at the back. The motor had apparently gotten burned out. He looked around. There was hand washing pegged on a nylon rope strung near the furnace.

  Her underwear.

  Okay.

  He tried not to look at it. It wasn’t relevant.

  The dryer motor was burned out. Libby wasn’t here. He was getting lightheaded from hunger. Those things were relevant. Her underwear wasn’t. Should he be concerned that she wasn’t here? Had she called anyone about the dryer? Should he look for a note she might have left? And should he feed Scarlett, who would soon be as hungry as he was?

  For the moment, she was still happy on the slide, and he moved a little closer to the underwear. Maybe he should hang up the wet stuff from the dryer? Would it fit on the line? It was a little hard to check the available space without getting pretty familiar with what was already on it.

  “Who am I kidding here?” Brady groaned aloud.

  “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy,” Scarlett said.

  “Yeah, I know. This isn’t right,” he answered her, but he kept looking all the same.

  So this was Libby’s underwear…


  She didn’t go for brief, but she went for sheer. He saw net and lace and thin, almost transparent silk, in the same pastels and creams and whites she favored in her outer clothing. Soft bra cups, frilly edgings, little ribbons tied into bows.

  He groaned again.

  Upstairs, seconds later, he heard a door slam shut and toddling footsteps. He flinched with guilt and called gruffly at once, “Libby, is that you?” He stepped back toward the dryer, away from what he’d really been looking at.

  “Oh, you found it, didn’t you?”

  Yes, and it’s better than a lingerie catalogue.

  “I’m so sorry, it’s my fault,” she went on. “I’ll pay for the repair, or for a new machine.”

  “The dryer.” Right. Right. “Yeah, I could smell it.” She was coming down the stairs. “It wasn’t your fault,” he said. “It’s pretty old.”

  She appeared, carrying Colleen. They must have been out for a walk, or something. They both had pink cheeks and red noses and bright eyes.

  “No, you see, I forgot to empty the lint filter before I started,” she said. She put Colleen down, slid out the filter and showed it to him. The curved screen of wire was coated in a soft, thick felt of gray-blue the approximate color of his towels. She peeled it off. “See? The air couldn’t get through, or something.”

  “No, the motor was old. It’s okay. Hey, I’m glad there’s a household task you’re not perfect at, Libby. I always forget to empty the lint filter, too.”

  “I kind of like it when it gets thick.” She wrinkled up her nose. “Because then it peels off so nicely, in one long strip.” She frowned, clapped her hands to her pink cheeks. “That’s pretty weird, isn’t it?” She seemed surprised at herself, oddly in awe. “I’ve never told that to anyone before—that I have a thing about dryer lint.”

  “I won’t blackmail you with it.”

  “That’s what you’d say, though, isn’t it?” Her cheeks were still pink, but she’d relaxed now, and seemed a little giddy. “At first? The escalating demands for cash would come later.”